


I know, I know, I know

by Rabid1st



Series: Counting the Hours [3]
Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Bonding, Dancing, First Kiss, Fluff and Smut, Gay Bar, M/M, Oblivious Stiles, Ratings: R, Slow Build, Some Humor
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-09-02
Updated: 2013-09-02
Packaged: 2017-12-25 08:41:54
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,954
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/951048
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Rabid1st/pseuds/Rabid1st
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Part 3 of the Counting the Hours series. Derek and Stiles are fighting their attraction. Things heat up in Beacon Hills when Ethan hooks up with a mysterious exchange student. Stiles learns that Derek is haunting gay bars and they share their first kiss. Stiles insists on knowing why Derek is acting so odd.</p>
            </blockquote>





	I know, I know, I know

**Author's Note:**

> Song references for those who like the multi-media experience.
> 
> Alone Together by Fall Out Boy http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=996nDRrFa64
> 
> Love More by Chris Brown http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=GQikGpSNG1I
> 
> Ain't No Sunshine by Jimmy Lindsay http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Opmgum_08Bg

**Title:** I Know, I Know, I Know  
 **Author:** Rabid1st  
 **Rating:** Mature  
 **Character(s)/Pairing(s):** Derek/Stiles, Sheriff Stilinski, Lydia Martin  
 **Warning(s):** M/M make out session  
 **Spoiler(s):** Set at the start of Season3b, speculation from the 3b Sneak Peek on Revelations  
 **Word Count:** 4600  
 **Summary:** Part 3 of the There It Is series. Derek and Stiles are fighting their attraction. Things heat up in Beacon Hills when Ethan hooks up with an exchange student. Stiles learns that Derek is haunting gay bars and they share their first kiss. Stiles insists on knowing why this is happening.  
 **Disclaimer:** Teen Wolf and these characters are not mine. This fic represents fair use for fan purposes. 

 

_My heart is like a stallion  
they love it more when it's broken._

Stiles loved Fall Out Boy, but they were currently playing havoc with his spying plans. He couldn't hear anything above their pounding beat. It echoed off his rib cage. The bartender, four feet away, might as well be on the moon for all the notice he'd taken of their questions. Stiles needed to get Scott closer to the couple they were shadowing or this whole evening would be a bust. He tried to convey this desire to Scott via pantomime and shouting.

“What?” Scott yelled, a few inches from Stiles' ear.

“Dance with me,” Stiles shouted, repeating his request. He could barely hear himself over the din from the dance floor. 

Scott shook his head. “Dude, I'm not dancing with you.”

“Yes,” Stiles said, nodding emphatically. “We need to get closer to them.”

“What if Miko sees us?” Scott said. “She already thinks we're a couple.”

Stiles only caught one word of that, but he got the gist. Scott was concerned about his new crush seeing him with Stiles. Probably because she had walked in on them in a seemingly compromising position last week. Hilarious misunderstandings ensued.

“Miko? Oh, My God, Scott! It's a gay bar. Why would Miko be here?”

“I can't hear anything,” Scott said. “It is too loud.”

“Use your wolf ears,” Stiles said, stabbing a finger at his own ear. Since Scott then made his finger and thumb into a gun in answer, he obviously didn't understand the miming. Or maybe he just wanted Stiles to shoot him.

“Too—loud,” Scott screamed, just as the DJ flipped the house lights down and changed to a softer melody.

Several people turned to stare at them. Stiles nearly choked laughing when he recognized the opening chords of the next song. It was _Love More_ by Chris Brown. Maybe Scott was right when it came to slow dancing. There was only so much a brotherly bond could endure. Stiles searched for their quarry, found him and pointed toward the restrooms. Ethan was headed that way. Scott shook his head again. Stiles rolled his eyes so hard he had to tip his head back to accommodate the motion. Which is when he saw Derek Hale standing behind him, stripping off his leather jacket. He tossed the outerwear to Scott. 

Stiles whirled around on his bar stool. Derek had never looked hotter. Stiles had no idea what he'd done to himself, beyond trimming his beard a little, but it was certainly working. He wore black jeans and a ribbed white tank that left nothing at all to the imagination. He had also bangled up. His left wrist sported a studded leather cuff. His right was adorned with a few stone bead bracelets. Derek wearing jewelry? Stiles swallowed a lump in his throat. He was sure his heart skipped a few beats and hoped the mayhem around them masked the sound. It certainly didn't cover his full body twitch when Derek's fingers found his hand and curled around it. 

Leaning in, pressing along his entire torso, Derek spoke into his ear, “Nod your head.”

Stiles stared past Derek into Scott's wide round eyes for a second and then smirked. He nodded as instructed. Satisfied, Derek moved away, tugging his hand. Stiles spilled off his stool and followed. They cut a path across the dance floor toward Ethan's companion. The other dancers parted for Derek. Stiles couldn't help noting the envious stares he was getting. A few minutes ago not a man in the place had responded to his flannel-clad charms. Now, he was blipping on everyone's radar. He added a little swagger to his stride, dissing the nearest onlookers with a toothy sneer.

 _Baby, you let go and I pull you back. I let go, you ain't having that._

Derek got them close enough to Ethan's date to overhear his phone call, despite the ambient noise. Making room on the dance floor, he drew Stiles tight to his own hips, by pressing a palm into the small of his back.

_When you back it up, it really drives me crazy, and you know what I'm into._

“It's Japanese,” he said, grinding into Stiles as Chris Brown sang on for awhile about the virtues of persistence, taking his cue from that old adage practice makes perfect.

_'Til we get it right, we gonna f**k some more._

Stiles wanted to ask questions. How did Derek recognize the language? Having recognized it, did he understand it? And what was being said? But with the volume, the pulsing lights, the heat and people and Derek it was almost too much for his brain to process. Yet, somehow the sensory overload made it very easy for Stiles to relax. He felt present in his body. For a minute or so he just danced. He lifted his arm in the air and fist pumped to the bass line. _Shades on, doing 95 with the top down..._ He could learn to love this club. If only intimacy were as simple as this, working it until you got it right. Hips rocking, he turned his back to Derek and gyrated toward the floor. Derek matched his movements, wrapping around him. When they came up again, Stiles spun around, grabbed those muscled shoulders and held on like he was surfing a twelve-foot wave. He saw Derek had focused on the conversation behind them, obviously getting something from it. Derek's hands kept a tapping time with the beat. They danced along every exposed inch of Stiles' skin. Hands with a mind of their own, apparently. 

Meanwhile, Chris Brown explored his own issues. 

_I hate you, then I love you._

“Pick a fight,” Derek said, at his ear again while Nicki Minaj took her turn with vulgarity. 

“What?”

“They're leaving. Pick a fight. Storm after them. I'll follow.”

“Let go of me, you...sick puppy,” Stiles shouted, pushing away from their embrace. The pitying look this lame insult inspired made him haul back and slap Derek. “You...nose hair.”

“Come on,” Derek said, making no attempt at smothering his mirth. “You know you want it.”

“Asshole.”

“That's almost a compliment.”

“Yeah,” Stile's said, finally finding his character. “So is suck this in the right context. You are never taking me home.”

“Baby, don't be like that,” Derek whined, sounding nothing like his usual gruff self. “We can do what you're into.”

Stiles avoided his grip, stumbling away as if overwrought. Derek followed him, so he turned back to say, “I'd rather sleep with your sister.”

“Maybe that's why she left town.”

“Maybe that's why you came back,” Stiles snapped, whirling away again.

He'd scowled even as those words left his tongue, tripping in his forward motion because while that sentence didn't make much sense, it still seemed to mean something. Belatedly, he remembered he was supposed to be storming away. Derek couldn't chase him if he didn't go. He made a beeline for the exit, hitting the push bar on the door hard enough to fling himself out into night air. He saw Ethan standing only a few feet away and darted into nearby shadow. Derek came after him, but didn't stop when they collided. He slammed Stiles onto the hood of a parked car. Luckily, the car was a clunker, too old for an alarm system. Ethan heard the metal give and glanced in their direction. Stiles registered their vulnerability a second before Derek's mouth cut off his sharp inhale. 

Derek Hales lips were on his. All of Derek was pretty much on him, like a lion guarding a gazelle carcass. Stiles was still coming to grips with the staggering notion that his first male kiss was with Derek Hale, when he stumbled over his own shoes and slid toward the asphalt. Derek caught him with one arm, tossing him further up the hood as if he weighed nothing at all. Stiles had never considered himself particularly submissive. But he broke under this assault. Talk about being manhandled. Jeez. His knees dropped open and his back arched up, his body surrendering to the tide of the moment. Derek gutted him with another kiss. His tongue teased along Stile's own, twisting, stroking. It just got better and better. Stiles clutched at any part of Derek he could reach, his neck, his shirt. He tried to speak when Derek moved on to savaging his throat--teeth blunt on skin, tongue slick, mouth sucking hard. But instead of voicing a protest, Stiles made a noise he was sure no man had ever made before. Derek seemed to respond to the mewling gasp. He eased back a little, tilting his head to listen. 

“What the hell was that?” Stiles said, his whispered squeak cracking. He didn't know if he meant Derek's onslaught or his own reaction to it. 

“Diversion,” Derek said. “Shush.”

“I'm diverted, all right.”

“Not for you,” Derek said. 

Mood sufficiently doused with the ice in that tone, Stiles tipped his head back to see what Derek was looking at. The arch pushed his hips up into Derek and he realized how hard they both were. Then, he couldn't hear anything but the pounding of his own pulse. 

“What are they saying?”

“They're gone,” Derek said.

“Oh, why are you still...?” Stiles began, stopping mid-sentence when there was a crunch of gravel to the left of them. 

“Do I even want to know?” Scott asked. 

“Diversion,” Stiles said, scrambling up the instant Derek moved away from him. Both of them adjusted their clothes.

“Is that a hickey?” Scott asked, peering at Stiles. He laughed as Stiles hand shot to the spot where Derek had been sucking on his throat, marking him. 

Stiles blushed. “Next time,” he hissed at Scott, “when I ask you to dance with me. Just do it.”

“This is why I avoid it,” Scott said, holding Derek's jacket out to him. “No slut shaming, but you have a reputation in this town.”

Derek heaved a put upon sigh. “Does anyone care about the Intel?”

“Right,” Stiles said. “No, what did you hear?”

“There's a package coming in tomorrow night at the airport. Ethan is meeting the plane, but he doesn't know what's really going on.”

“So, we need to intercept that delivery,” Scott said. “Good work, guys.”

“Happy to help,” Derek said with a tight smile. 

They walked together to the club door, but Derek continued on toward his car, while Scott and Stiles paused to consider their next move. As they leaned on the railing of the stairs, their waiter stopped next to them. He was on his way back from carrying a trash bag to the dumpster. He followed the angle of Stiles' gaze to Derek's retreating figure.

“That guy is nothing but show, honey,” the waiter said. “Just don't go there.”

“Derek?” Stile said, shocked by the familiarity in the man's voice. “You know him?”

“Is he yours? Sorry,” the waiter said. He raked his gaze down Stiles. “Boy, he sure does have a type.”

“Derek?” Scott said, sounding as flabbergasted as Stiles felt.

“Mr. Tight Body, yeah,” the waiter confirmed. “He's been in a couple times this month. All he does is haunt the pretty young things. Gets them worked up, and off he goes. A real cock tease.” He focused some concern on Stiles. “I don't think he's cheating on you, sweetie. But there's something wrong with him. No offense.” 

“None taken,” Stiles said, saluting the waiter with a finger past the brow as the man went back inside. 

“I wondered about the outfit,” Scott said. “He didn't know we would be here. Unless you called him.”

Stiles shook his head. “I didn't.”

“Those bracelets are a new look. Maybe he's trying to give up girls,” Scott said. Another thought struck him and he smacked Stiles on the shoulder. “Is that why he's got your picture?”

“I have no idea,” Stiles said, but he figured Scott could tell he was lying. He was certain this Derek insanity had something to do with him.

“I'll aways think of F--- Some More as your couple song, Dude. Do you have one of those Brangelina names?”

“Shut up, Scott.”

**************************************************************

Stiles thought about Derek for the next three days. He kept replaying the kisses. And the dance. And going over all of his questions, every piece of the puzzle. But he kept coming up with more things that didn't seem to fit. On the fourth night, he decided he had only one option for answers. As soon as his dad went to bed, Stiles slipped out of the house and headed for Derek's place. He called ahead, but only as he parked the car. 

Derek barked his usual greeting. “What?”

“Derek?”

“What?”

“It's Stiles.”

Derek sighed. “I know.”

“Finally cracked that caller ID feature, huh?”

“Are you terrified or dying?”

Stiles couldn't follow this for a second. “Am I--? No.”

“I'm hanging up.”

“Wait. Can I come over?”

“When?”

“Now. I'm downstairs.”

There was a very long pause. Then a very soft, “Yeah.”

Stiles stepped out of the elevator to find Derek's door standing open. He pulled it closed behind him, when he entered. A few pools of lamplight illuminated areas of the dim loft, one by the bed, one on Derek. Smooth jazz played in the background, barely audible. The bed was turned down and rumpled, but Derek sprawled on the sofa, reading. His hair was slightly damp from a recent shower. He wore jeans and a green shirt with longer sleeves and a snap collar. Stiles had no idea what the clingy style was called but he liked it better on Derek than the tees. Derek's legs bridged to the coffee table. Ankles crossed. Feet bare. Studied nonchalance, Stiles thought. And wondered if Derek's heart was also beating too fast. 

“Something's up with you,” Stiles said, using a bold opening gambit. “You should just tell me what it is.”

“It's late. I'm tired. Go home.”

“I figured out about the number,” Stiles said. 

“What number?”

“In your journal. By my picture? It's hours. Counting down to my eighteenth birthday.”

“Seems unlikely,” Derek said, casually turning a page without bothering to read down it.

“Like you trawling for boys at the Jungle? Or this bruise on my neck? What the hell, Derek?”

Derek tossed his book aside and dropped his feet to the floor. He leaned forward to take a different book from the tabletop. He didn't open it. Stiles waited for a response. When none came, he went to the dining area and pulled a chair over to confront the sofa. But instead of sitting down, he paced back and forth as he addressed Derek.

“Scott thinks you're giving up girls.”

“I'm not.”

“So, feeling completely heterosexual, then?”

“One hundred percent.” 

“Good to know.”

Derek cocked up an eyebrow. “Is it?”

“What happens on my birthday?”

“We all sing that stupid song?”

“Stop it. Tell me. Is it like an apocalypse? Or something? The darkness swallows my soul?”

“It's nothing.”

“Good. As long as that's cleared up. I'll go.” Stiles half-turned as if to leave. 

“Wait,” Derek rumbled. 

Stiles waited, but nothing else happened. “It's a wolf thing, right? 'Tis the season when you make out with random men?”

Derek rubbed a hand over his face, pinching at the bridge of his nose. He huffed a sigh into his palm. “It's a wolf thing.”

“Okay,” Stiles said. “And...?” His hands grasped at air, pleading for more information.

“No. Not okay,” Derek corrected him. He placed the book he was holding on the coffee table. Opening it to a particular page, he stabbed a finger down into the text. The script looked Arabic to Stiles, completely beyond his comprehension. 

“Might as well be in Klingon. What—does—it—say?”

“It's called the Iron Bond. Sometimes the Blood Bond. They say it endures as long as your blood flows.”

“My blood or yours?”

“Either. Both.”

“So the cure is to drain all of our blood?”

Derek compressed his lips into a fine line. Stiles waited, until Derek said, “There is no cure.”

“Thanks! That is sufficiently cryptic,” Stiles said, taking a few steps closer to stare down at Derek. He put a hand out, stopping just short of grasping Derek's shoulder. 

“Don't,” Derek said. 

Stiles didn't. But he itched to take hold of Derek and shake him until he broke down and confessed. Or maybe until they both broke and the passions they kept locked inside roared free. Stiles wanted to punch Derek. Or shout at him. Or screw him. Or something. He felt the kinetic energy between them ramping up and began pacing again. 

“I can see you don't want to talk about this.”

Derek gave him a put upon glare that said, “So? Stop trying to make me talk.”

“But I can't let it go. It's driving me crazy, Derek.”

Dropping his gaze to the floor, Derek remained silent.

Stiles went on. “I need to know what is wrong with you. Or us. Who else will be affected? How did it happen? When did it happen? And, to be clear, what exactly is happening? Can you spell it out for me using words of under one syllable and your bushy brows?”

Derek glanced up at him with mournful canine eyes. Old Shep the faithful companion, Stiles thought, sarcastically. Then, he didn't think anything else, because Derek said, “I'm in love with you.”

Stiles realized his brain was rebooting when he felt his knees buckle. He lunged for the chair he'd put on stand-by earlier. He nearly missed it as he sat down too quickly. The chair wobbled, threatening to capsize him. Flailing for balance, he let his legs brace wide in an inelegant sprawl. He gasped for air and held up one finger, as if requesting a minute to compose himself. Though, Derek seemed in no hurry to say anything more.

“You just blurt that out?” Stiles exclaimed, when he'd caught his breath. His voice cracked, pitched too high. “Can't say two words to a person about the weather. But...this? It flows off your tongue?”

The muscles at the back of Derek's jaw bunched as he ground his teeth. Eyes fixed on Stiles, he pressed his fingertips together as if praying. He placed the steeple of his pointer fingers to his lips. But it was too late to guard his speech. He'd let his secret out into the world. And now it would probably eat them both for breakfast. He'd rather face a hundred monsters than this simple truth. But, despite his own unwillingness, he was surprised by Stiles' reaction. Worse, Stiles read the dumbfounded hurt in his face.

“You thought I knew?” Stiles said, speaking in an cool and measured way. “Oh, my God!”

“When I came home. You... You were in my bed and...”

“Sleep deprived. Raving? Incoherent? Wait, did something happen?” Derek grimaced. “Holy Crap. I hit on you, didn't I?”

“....then, the dancing,” Derek finished.

“Don't talk to me about dancing.”

“Right. This is not your problem.”

“Not my...?” Stiles threw his hands up. “Oh, good to know. I was worried it might bleed over into our daily interactions. But now--” He dropped his chin to his chest, crossed his arms, and sulked for a few beats. Then, peering from beneath his brow, he stared at Derek for some time. 

“How long...? How long have you had this particular affliction?” Stiles finally asked, taking a stab at casual. “Did it come over you, suddenly? One day you were doing your little wolf chores, cleaning up after one of the rampages, and you thought what this place needs is more Stiles?”

If eye rolls could kill, Stiles would have been laid low by the one Derek did in response. It said, you are an idiot. And so am I. “Go home, Stiles,” he said. “Forget I said anything.”

“Forget you love me?” Stiles said, as if that was a reasonable thing to ask. “Okay, that will be incredibly difficult,” he said, the sentence escalating from a calm start to a shout. “Especially, because I think about you constantly. So, every time your name comes to mind, I'll think, Derek? Oh, yeah...that's right. He loves me. And then, I suppose, I will just go back to the horror story du jour. Meanwhile, I imagine you are going to continue picking up psycho killer bitches and pretty boys in bars?”

“Boys?”

“Yeah, you been outed, buddy. So much for the down low.”

“I don't pick up boys.”

“I know. You dance. With people who look a lot like me. But are, and this is crucial, not me. I have it on good authority that you are all talk. Which is amazing, considering how you never say anything.”

“In the pool,” Derek said. 

“What?”

“It started in the pool, when you rescued me.”

“In the pool?” Stiles shook his head, obviously struggling to make sense of this. “What—with Jackson? But...that was ages ago.”

“Yeah.”

“All this time?”

“Yeah.”

“I'm not going to lie. I feel a little violated, right now,” Stiles said. “And only partly because you violated me the other night.”

Derek teed his hands in a time-out sign. “Hey. No.”

“No?”

“You were all over me,” Derek said. “I had to shower.”

“If you can be all over someone from beneath them, then sure,” Stiles said. He tugged the collar of his shirt down, fully exposing the black and blue marks on his throat. Derek widened his eyes in dismay at this. Stiles tried to brazen it through, pretending he wasn't secretly thrilled by those bruises, while Derek held his gaze. But werewolves were better than cats at staring contests. Stiles blinked first, and turned his head away. Flinging an arm into the air, he confessed, “Fine. I might have responded in kind to your...obvious enthusiasm.”

“About that,” Derek said.

“Your enthusiasm?” Stiles asked, hopefully. Derek pierced him with a knife's edged glare. “My response,” Stiles said, nodding along with Derek. 

“It was...responsive.”

“So...yeah! Uh—about that.” Stiles rubbed a hand along the tense muscles at the back of his neck. “I like girls, too. But, I figure I'm more 50/50 on the heterosexual ratio. You bring the experience, I'll bring the aptitude.”

“Aptitude?”

“I figure I'm going to do some guy, some time. If the universe ever stops working against me like this. I mean, always dropping me into extremely weird relationships and laughing as I freak. And for the record I'm putting you at 80/20. Maybe you've only dated women, but you were definitely thinking about switch hitting the other night.”

Derek rocked his head from side to side, willing to capitulate on that one. Stiled gave him a small smile. Derek snapped his book closed. 

“You know,” he said. “Now, go home.”

“You're kidding me, right?” Stiles said. He got up and rounded the coffee table, so he could drop onto the couch next to Derek. Their arms brushed. “How can I possibly leave, now? You want me. And I've just confessed to a mutual attraction. Did you miss it?”

Derek stood with undo haste. “It's late. I'm tired.”

“So, go back to bed,” Stiles said, slouching into the sofa, as if he planned on staying the night. “I'm okay here.”

“No.”

“You are not selling me on this bonding thing. I think you might just have a touch of distemper.”

“I can throw you out,” Derek said.

“Not without touching me,” Stiles said, smirking. “And that's a slippery slope, isn't it, Derek?”

Derek fisted his claws into the fabric of Stiles' loose outer flannel, lifting him from the couch with a flex of one arm. To his surprise, Stiles pushed off at the same time. The lack of resistance spilled them into one another. Stiles slithered past Derek's chest. This forced Derek to break their combined weight with an arm around Stiles' waist. One of Stiles' hands snagged Derek's shirt, pulling it up his belly. There was an almost accidental sliding of fingers under clothing. And Stiles spoke close to his ear. 

“You owe me a dance,” he said. “And I love this song.”

Only then did Derek notice that Stiles had the stereo remote in his free hand. He gave it a click and the background music swelled into the foreground. Another click and the song started over from the beginning. The first notes of the song were completely unfamiliar, a sort of bluesy percussion line. And then someone chanted, “Ain't no sunshine.” And Derek almost laughed. Almost. His brows rose significantly, and his mouth lifted at the corners, but he managed to hold it together. Because Stiles had darted a quelling glare at him, and because the singer admonished him with a drawn out, “No.”

“You know this song?”

“Yeah, John Mayer did it. But this is Jimmy Vaughn...no Lindsay. Jimmy Lindsay. A reggae version. My dad used to have this on vinyl. He played it sometimes after my mom got sick.”

Derek couldn't help the slight tensing pressure of the arm he'd wrapped around Stiles. He knew what it felt like to lose your mother. Neither of them moved as the song played through once more, but they both relaxed into a less combative attitude.

_She's always gone too long any time she goes away._

Was that how Stiles felt when he left town, Derek wondered? Certainly, he didn't know where Derek had gone. He'd already lost so much. His innocence to Deaton's dark ritual. No mother. No warmth. No sunshine.

_Only darkness every day._

Derek thought of the darkness inside Stiles, the nightmares. How he'd come to the loft, seeking comfort, and fallen asleep in Derek's bed. Maybe they could comfort one another. Maybe it wasn't such a horrible idea.

_I know, I know, I know, I wanna leave that young thing alone._

Only the reggae version didn't say that. It talked about resistance, but not about someone too young. Derek nodded at the remote as the song hit a long horn interlude. 

“Can you start that over?”

Stiles seemed to recall their battle of wills. He stiffened. Derek let go of him and they stepped apart. Stiles hesitated for a moment, then pressed the replay button. The bluesy interlude began again and Stiles tossed the remote back to the couch. Derek tilted his head, making a come hither motion as he held out a hand. Stiles bounced in place a few times, lips fighting against a smirk, before he fitted into Derek's embrace. His air of obvious triumph reminded Derek of Kate Argent for just a second. She'd gloated over using him, telling him how easy he was to manipulate. He could only hope he was safer with Stiles. Though if anyone were ever likely to burn his life to the ground, it was this kid. 

They positioned themselves, hip to hip. It felt awkward and unsure, at first, rather than happening naturally as it had in the club. But by the time the chorus started again, they had worked out a swaying rhythm. Derek's right hand clasped Stiles' left, their fingers intertwining. His other hand explored the small of Stiles' back, gripped the slight dip of his waist. Stiles looped his free arm higher, elbow crooked around Derek at the neck. His fingers swirled over skin and toyed with locks of hair, sending chills through Derek's entire body. Stiles rested his cheek against Derek's shoulder, turning his head until he was at a kissable angle.

_I know. I know. I know._

“Do you?” Stiles asked. When Derek closed his eyes without answering, Stiles prompted him again, “Do you know?”

“That I should leave you alone?” Derek muttered. “Absolutely.”

“No,” Stiles said, drawing the word out in exasperation. “That it has me, too. This blood bond.” He lifted his head, breaking contact as he pulled away. Derek felt the loss of warmth. “So you can't leave, again, okay?” At arm's length now, he searched Derek's face. “Because...you can't, right?”

Derek tried to make his fingers let go, but he was like a hawk on a strike, fisted around Stiles. He wanted to release him. He really did. But not as much as he wanted to hang on and go even further down this road to ruin. This is definitely our song, he thought. He yanked Stiles back into him, catching him high, bracketing his face with a hand. Nose to nose. Eye to eye. Brows touching, they breathed in one another. The song ended. Silence reigned with a heavy hand, but they didn't move. Derek's muffled growl finally broke the spell on them both.

“You should go home,” he said.

“How many hours is it now?” Stiles said. 

“Too many,” Derek told him, just before their lips met. 

Third kiss was the charm, Stiles thought. It was slower and sweeter than the first two, but even more satisfying, because it carried a lingering promise of more to come. 

The End


End file.
